


Coming Home

by Bexinthecity247



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bexinthecity247/pseuds/Bexinthecity247
Summary: "After all of my runningI'm finally comingHome"She yearned for some human contact that wasn’t punctuated by ‘ma’am’. But alas, she’d made her bed, had chosen her path and she must travel it, no matter how lonely.Just a little oneshot in the aftermath of the sex scandal that catapulted Julia and David's relationship into the public eye.





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the 'bomb' episode so I'm pretending that never happened.  
> It's just a cute, little fluffy, oneshot that's a little out of character (Sorry!)
> 
> Based on the feeling from 'Coming Home' By Gwyneth Paltrow.

“Julia Montague, risen from the ashes? The Home Secretary has made it very clear she’d be remaining in cabinet despite the calls for her resignation over a scandal involving her personal protection officer, Sargeant David Budd.” The report continued but Julia showed no interest in reading it. She had lived it already. She dropped the paper like a stone and proceeded out of her office, head held high. She was flanked on either side by her protection officers, a young red headed woman on her right and a hulk of a man on her left. The man, she had marveled on first meeting, could easily have come straight from the SAS. And there was no warmth to his tone when he spoke her name, bracketed in his thick London accent.  

“Seven-nine, Lavender coming out,” he said into the ear piece. It was a command she had long grown tired of but she let it wash over her as he opened the car door for her and she slid in, watching as he took his regular spot in the front seat.  

She spent half the trip staring at the back of his near bald head, remembering a time when another head sat in front of her. She pulled out her phone, checking emails, she told herself, when deep down she was looking at her call log, somewhat desperate for anyone to call her that wasn’t a cabinet minister, or journalist. She yearned for some human contact that wasn’t punctuated by ‘ma’am’. But alas, she’d made her bed, had chosen her path and she must travel it, no matter how lonely. 

The ride was relatively short and all too quickly she was sat outside the flat she’d spent so much time away from whilst under threat. All those times she’d been only mere feet from him. There were no adjoining rooms here however. The man, her PPO, preceded her into the house, claiming a need to check every inch of the property, stopping just short of the bedroom. 

“I mean, really, must you?” she said waspishly, pulling her coat off. 

“I’m sorry ma’am, but yes,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. 

“I’m not a target anymore, this is quite unnecessary!” She said, raking her hand through her hair.  

The man barely registered her complaints before he pushed the door open. She’d be idiotic not to see the similarities between this night and one just like it so many months ago. Had it been more than a year? She couldn’t recall. She let the brute search her inner sanctum whilst she poured herself a glass of wine, declining to offer him a glass. She sipped it as she watched him judge her clinical living circumstances. 

“It’s been a very trying day James, I’m sorry,” she said when he appeared in her living room. She tilted her head to one side. He nodded slowly. 

“Ma’am,” was all he said, his gaze washing over her in either judgement of her very public sex scandal (one the papers turned around to make her look like a slut) or wondering whether she’d fuck him too.  

She gripped the counter, sipping her wine as she desperately waited for him to leave, which he did, with a nod of his head, dowsing the flat in cold silence. She grabbed the bottle, plonked it on her coffee table and eyed up her despatch box, discarded by the front door. Her gaze flicked between it and her watch; it was rapidly approaching eight. She’d figured she’d work on that blasted speech then turn in to start a new day, where she’d do the same all over again... 

She snatched up the box and sank into the sofa, pulling her laptop towards her and spreading papers out that made it look like the room had been hit by a tornado. 

Julia’s neck ached, her shoulders burned, and she tried to massage them, her eyes on the screen, her mouth working over the words of the speech Rob had written for her. He’d taken her original idea, the rehab programme for veterans, and dismantled it entirely. Now she was sure it would take several glasses, a massive headache (which was already starting to build behind her eyes) and a night’s worth of work to fix it. She gulped her wine and held her head, aware her eyelids were already beginning to droop. Perhaps coffee or tea would have been a better choice, she thought. 

 

x-x-x 

The key scraped the lock, turning surreptitiously as its owner pushed open the heavy door. The flat was bathed in darkness and he considered the time before electing not to put the main light on. He passed into the kitchen, the plastic bags in each hand rustled as he tried to detangle himself from them, using his elbow to light the room. He left the bags on the counter before going in search of life. From the living room a blue hue cast the immediate area with an incandescent glow. 

She was laying on the sofa, papers spread across the table that the laptop only partially illuminated. He leaned over, stroking a strand of hair from her eyes. He doubted she’d eaten, having come straight from work, to work at home, he surmised. He kissed her temple then gently shook her. 

“Julia,” he whispered. She didn’t rouse right away so he shook her again, leaning in to murmur her name in her ear.  

Her eyes fluttered open and he pulled back. She looked at him long enough for him to come into focus. 

“I’m sorry I’m so late, Vick was having problems with Charlie,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. One she mirrored as he walked away to the kitchen. She drew herself out of the stiff position she’d folded herself into and arched her back. She was pushing papers into some semblance of order when he came back with two polystyrene containers in one hand, two mugs in the other. He set them down on the table. “I take it you haven’t eaten?” 

She smiled. “You do take good care of me,” she said, pulling open the chip container. 

“Ma’am,” he said with a grin, popping a chip in his mouth.


End file.
